Life and Island Times: Three Immigrant Gringos

After traversing the Pacific Coast Highway to Los Osos, they were treated to a home cooked dinner and visit with Augustus’s sister in law Flo and her extended family. There was much discussion about politics and the economy but none about what the riders had seen or experienced.

The next day put them on southern California interstates and freeways. About three hours into the day, the motorcycle gremlins’ reappearance looked to complicate their plans. The group’s newest bike – Rex’s Goldwing — experienced a stuck throttle cable. This was not a good thing for freeway riding.

Fortuitously they found a dealership whose mechanics quickly fixed the problem. An added benefit to the $150 maintenance stop was that Rex’s scooter gained a good deal of low and mid end acceleration after the fix.

They arrived safe and sound in San Diego after some brief confusion as to the exact location of the Navy Lodge. They dined in on takeout food and a nice bottle of red wine.

En route corner #3 they motored early the next morning their way southward against the flow of the rush hour traffic. Along the way, they passed a curious road caution sign. America may be politically divided over the issue of illegal aliens (undocumented workers?) but let no one say that it doesn’t give illegal border runners a sporting chance to cross America’s 70 MPH, 12 lane wide freeways.

As soon as they entered San Ysidro, the locus of the trip’s third corner, they detected that they were under observation. It wasn’t just the American federales and their ubiquitous cameras and sensors. The most palpable surveillance came from the town’s Hispanic residents. The bikers could feel resident eyeballs clicking as they squintily registered their gringo presence.

The riders repeatedly asked directions to the town’s post office. They received either no lo sé’s or vague maybe over that way finger-pointed directions.

The riders’ Spanish may have been rusty, but they were quite certain that they overheard several not-so-nice characterizations of their parentage as they putted along the town’s main drag. In response, the bikers smiled and waved at the Border Patrol cameras whenever they scanned them, while being silently stunned by the San Ysidro state penitentiary exercise yard atmosphere. They took commemorative photos and hastily departed this downtown prison.

This day’s destination was Yuma, Arizona. To lessen the effects of the heat of the day they avoided the interstate as they hightailed it beyond San Diego’s eastern ‘burbs. This placed them on California route 94 which parallels the US-Mexican border. Oftentimes they were so close that they could see the border fences.

Route 94 was laid out through miles and miles of bizarre piles of smooth boulders and was crossed by a single stark railroad bridge. Augustus aptly described these rock formations as button mushrooms. Rex commented that it looked as if giant intergalactic dump trucks had mistakenly dropped their loads off there.

They stopped for fuel and food in Campo California, nearby route 94’s eastern terminus. While gassing up, Augustus met a gentleman who claimed to be a member of the Minutemen Project. He directed the riders gaze to the southern horizon and proudly announced that he and his fellow Minutemen had funded and built a mile and a half of the border fence off in the distance. This self-described American patriot gave them an excellent tip for our meal at a local dust-covered shack across the way.

After a brief post-lunch, hotter-than-hell desert ride on I8, they jumped onto US 98. They saw evidence of the US Border Patrol’s kinder, gentler immigration control efforts. To our right about 30 yards off of the berm, the USBP had emplaced at thousand yard intervals large plastic containers filled with jugs of water. Each box was clearly marked with the word “agua.”

Spook that he was, Marlow suspected that each location was wired with sensors to alert the Border Patrol’s sector control stations of the presence of newly arrived visitors to the US. The ensuing Border Patrol welcome party’s swift arrival in monstrous white GMC SUVs would be facilitated by the freshly groomed dirt trackways that connected these water boxes.

Outside of the All-American Canal pumping stations, the roadbed and these boxes, there were no signs whatsoever that mankind belonged in this desert. They realized then at least for that day’s ride all three of them were illegal immigrants to this most hostile of environments. They simply had the good fortune to be motorized, possessed of good credit and not in need of agua de emergencia

They found their way to Yuma in a completely desiccated state. After rehydration, cool down and Motel 6 check-in, they serendipitously supped at a place for which Augustus had fond memories from his days as a Marine Corps aviator — Chretin’s. This small local Mexican restaurant chain was home to a rite of passage for all Navy and Marine Corps aviators who passed through the weapons training regimen at the local Marine Corps Air Station.

Here is Augustus’s eloquent description:

“When a squadron deployed to Yuma Marine Corps Air Station someone would make a reservation for the squadron at Chretin’s. I have seen parties over a hundred strong in the place, eating only one thing, Chretin’s nachos, and drinking only margaritas.

“The nachos are served by the dozen. This wasn’t just a desultory pile of nacho chips with a blob of melted Velveeta and jalapeños on top. At Chretin’s, each plate had a dozen chips with a square of cheese and a slice of jalapeño on top of the cheese. The whole thing is put in an oven and heated until the cheese melts. It is then served immediately.

“The nachos were served quickly because their consumption was a contest. Everything is a contest to aviators! In this case:

· how many dozen nachos could your squadron eat?
· who could drink 8 oz of green and red hot sauce the fastest and live?
· who could drink the most margaritas?

“The all time champ was my squadron, VMFAT-101. On 11 July 1974 we ate 3040 nachos and First Lieutenant Jim Segars ate the all-time individual record of 126 on the same night. Segars became an instant hero but was not to be seen for three days.

“The Chretin family had infinite patience with these scenes of vulgarity and debauchery. Their business prospered. Chretin’s was, in my mind’s eye, one of the best experiences we had together in Yuma. Alas, nothing remains the same. After Joe and Winne turned the business over to their kids, the food quality and service went slowly downhill.

So, when these riders ate there on this trip, the nachos were OK but the rest of the food was mediocre and the service less so. This disappointment notwithstanding, memories are of Chretins in the seventies and eighties when it was a place to die for and more.

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